


A Casual Affair

by smolonde



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Two-Part, inspired by song lyrics, two perspectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolonde/pseuds/smolonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A casual affair/ That could go anywhere/ But only for tonight/ Take any moment, any time/ A lover on the left/ A sinner on the right<br/> Casual Affair- Panic! At the Disco</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twin Skeletons

**Author's Note:**

> And I just need enough of you to dull the pain  
> Just to get me through the night ‘til we’re twins again  
> ‘Til we’re stripped down to our skeletons again  
> ‘Til we’re saints just swimming in our sins again  
> Twin Skeletons (Hotel in NYC) - Fall Out Boy

The ceiling is cracked plaster with water damage ringing the fractures. A pair of orange eyes, barely open, stares up at it. The eyes flit away to the rest of the room; a wooden bedside table, a stack of magazines under it, a closet full of camouflage and workout clothes, a hardwood floor strewn with clothes that were shed last night in a heated frenzy. A fine, pale nose inhales the smell of something sweaty and musky, and a pink-lipped mouth opens, remembering the taste of another set of lips. A snore echoes through the cluttered room, and the tall, pale body, naked as a newborn babe, turns to look at the source.

A man is sleeping, just as naked, on his stomach, and his regal, dark features are sheened with a light sweat. Brown eyelids are shut closely over a set of eyes; the other cannot ever tell, even when looking at them, if they’re copper or red. A strong nose flares, and muscles in his back ripple as he turns over. His entire body is defined and muscled, and the skin of his biceps stretches thinly over the sinew. As the snoring continues, the other man closes his eyes and thinks.

How many times has this exact scenario played out? The blond man, waking up next to those same features? More times than he can count, he has found himself on his side, examining the imperfections on the other’s skin, the curves of his stomach, and the bruises on his neck from the night before. Dirk Strider has never bothered to examine himself afterwards; he knows the damage without even looking. Bruises in the shape of hands on his shoulders, vicious bites on his neck, the imprint of nails on his back. Caliborn does not take him as a lover; no. He marks his territory every time, making sure the world can see. _Mine, mine, mine._ Dirk’s body is a whorehouse to the Caliborn; his to enjoy, his to pour his pleasure into.

Dirk has never cared. It has been six years since Caliborn first sought him out. He recalls the hands on his waist on a darkened dance floor, a solid chest pressed against his back, and after an eternity, the same hands guiding him off the dancefloor into a corner. A kiss pressed to his lips, sloppy and hard, and then another, deep and devouring. For six years, Caliborn has eaten him alive, and yet he doesn’t want it any other way. Caliborn is better than any Benzedrine, any Percocet or Xanax. His intoxication is different; a delicious trip all the same, but more cleansing. No pain, no memories of his life in those moments; no recollections of the swirling darkness in his head, the nagging voice in the back of his mind pushing him further and further towards the edge. The emptiness in his heart, the lack of caring or compassion, the robotic nature of each and every motion. Caliborn pushes all that down, ties it with a brick and lets it sink. Afterwards, the ropes come undone, his worries float to the top, and he feels the same as before, but those few moments are precious to him.

The shape next to him begins to stir, and Dirk is jarred, thinking of the quickest way to get out the door.


	2. Sarah Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was fine, just a guy living on my own  
> Then you called and changed it all, doll  
> Velvet lips and the eyes to pull me in   
> We both know you’d already win  
> ¬Sarah Smiles- Panic! At the Disco

As orange eyes flit around a squalid room, another pair, red or copper, moves under closed eyelids. A memory of grappling hands, aggressive nails, and gluttonous lips echoes in the man’s mind, a series of mental snapshots from last night’s display of aberrance. Each and every joint, every tendon of his body feels the imprint of Dirk Strider’s hungry, amatory grasp. Somehow, even though he’s physically the one in control, he knows that he is the one being taken. In the incensed haze of quick, rough kisses and colliding hips, Dirk tugs him in a little further each time, his paradisiacal set of lips always knowing exactly what words to wrap themselves around, his slender arms curling to fit perfectly behind Caliborn’s head.

Of course, Caliborn doesn’t mind. He still moves with the agility of a boxer, forcing Dirk into merciless positions, having him in the most complete of ways, draining him of any salacious smugness that he started out with. Each time, he feels some kind of perverted euphoria, a triumph when Dirk finally slumps, exhausted, into the silken sheets. Caliborn’s anger, his searing hatred for everything, and his disgust at a world that pushes him down each time he starts to rise up; shoving every pent-up feeling of fury into Dirk one kiss, one scratch, one thrust at a time. Each time Dirk climaxes, gasping Caliborn’s name into a muscled, dark-brown shoulder blade, he feels absolute bliss, as if the demon inside him has been choked into silence.

He’s hurt people before; the guy at work that he shoved into the wall who ended up in the ICU for a broken shoulder, other wrestlers when he’s in the ring. But one person he’d never hurt in those ways is Dirk. The violence that he has for the blond is a different kind altogether. It’s still physical, but it’s a more erotic pain, one that you both crave each time he circles back to Dirk. He still doesn’t know why Dirk always takes him back every time. Sometimes three months will pass before they see each other again, and even then, they always seem to pick up exactly where they left off. Probably because they always leave off in the same place every time; one night of whispered words, agony, moans, and pleasure. The two of them will go their own way, Dirk seducing another and loving him fleetingly, Caliborn immediately laying eyes on a girl that very same morning and taking her to bed that afternoon. None of the endless lovers have ever measured up to what Caliborn feels for Dirk. It’s not a relationship with any love; no, rather one with a battle for dominance, unbridled anger, and a need to empty every drop of sentience from Caliborn’s mind. Dirk’s soft sighs into a pillow, the faces he makes when he throws his head back, the soft, exposed hollow of his neck, white and smooth at the beginning of the night and black and blue by the sunrise; this is what Caliborn lives to see. He could swear in front of a jury; he has never heard a more beautiful sound than the whimper from Dirk’s mouth when Caliborn bites the tender skin of the other’s shoulders.

Caliborn stirs, preparing to crack his eyes open, and when he does, the first thing he sees is a quick shutting of the bedroom door and a still-rising imprint of a body next to him.


End file.
